Caged by Freedom
by JadedFrenzy
Summary: The Capitol has fallen. Katniss has been sent back to District 12. What happens when the Mockinjay is no longer needed? Katniss' POV. MockingJay continuation. In the style of Suzanne Collins.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Hi there! First of all, please know that this story takes place near/after the end of MockingJay, but before the epilogue. As such, there will be spoilers, so I wouldn't recommend reading this story if you haven't read the entire Hunger Games trilogy yet. I'm writing this not as a separate story of its own with a set plot, but rather as if it were part of the third book itself. I found the end of it to be entirely too brief. This story is to help fill in some of those gaps. I'm writing it more for my own closure than anything, but I sincerely hope that you, the reader, will enjoy reading it. I haven't written a fic in a very, very long time, so I'm incredibly rusty! I've also never written in first person, present tense. I'm trying to match the author's general writing style which is different than my own, so it'll take some getting used to! I would love reviews and comments so that I can know if this is something worth pursuing and writing more of, or if I shouldn't bother.

Also, a huge thank you goes out to my beta-reader, April93 for her patience, great suggestions, and for giving this story its title. I can't wait to continue working with you!

Thanks so much, everyone! Enjoy!

*Disclaimer* I am not Suzanne Collins. I am not making any money from this story, nor do I want to. I'm just borrowing her characters and the world in which they live. I don't own anyone or anything; this is a work of fiction and should be regarded as such. Passages from the Hunger Games trilogy are property of Suzanne Collins, not me. They are used for entertainment purposes and to give a time/place/setting to the forthcoming chapter.

-*-*-*-*-*-*Chapter One*-*-*-*-*-*-

_**As the clinking of his bag of liquor bottles fades away, I whisper, "I doubt it." **_

_**I am unable to move from the chair. The rest of the house looms cold and empty and dark. I pull an old shawl over my body and watch the flames. **_–MJ.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. District 12 was destroyed, but will be rebuilt. The War is over, the Capitol has fallen. The Districts are free. Panem is free. Coin and Snow are dead. I am a victor of the 74th Hunger Games, and a survivor of the 75th Hunger Games, also known as the third Quarter Quell. I was the Mockingjay._

I stop my redundant inner catalog of facts that I often go through when things become hard to handle, or confusing. It's easy to do these days. Get confused, that is. So much has happened in a small amount of time. How do I sum up, even inside my own head, the most basic of facts about myself when even those feel confusing and muddled? Nothing about my life feels simple or basic. Every piece of information has other things attached to it - memories, experiences, a face, a name. A nightmare waiting to attack me as I sleep.

_I am the Mockingjay. I was the Mockingjay._ I test both out in my head and frown. Part of me still clings to that identity that was borne out of so many different things. Experiences, beliefs, memories, people. Their hopes, resting on my shoulders. Their deaths, their lives sacrificed to help pave the way for a better future for the rest of us. Well, we won. There's not much else for me to do. I'm glad for that, I think. They obviously don't know what to do with me, now that the war is over. I resent them for using me, for making me into their puppet. But I went along with it, didn't I? And can I really blame them? What would I have done if I'd been in their position? There's no way for me to know.

Now that the war is over and the Mockingjay is no longer needed, I've been cast aside, sent back to District 12 until they can figure out what to do with me. No, not just sent back. Exiled here, ordered back because I killed Coin. Maybe it makes me a monster, but that's one death that I don't regret. I don't feel one bit of remorse for firing the arrow that killed her. We didn't go through this war just to have nothing change. Besides, she was the one who ordered the parachutes be dropped on all those Capitol children. And my sister.

I shake my head almost violently. No, I can't think about her. It hurts too much. Besides, it wasn't just the bombing. She wanted to hold another Hunger Games. Wasn't that the whole point of the war? So that there would be no more Hunger Games? No more oppression, no more rich, over-fed Capitol citizens watching as the Districts starve and send their children off to fight to the death? Nothing would have changed if Coin had become president. At least with Paylor, there's a chance for change.

That line of thinking dies with the last embers. The fire had long since gone out, the wood little more than ashes that still hold the shape of logs. I know from experience that one touch would send them crumbling. Fire can destroy things, but eventually it runs out of fuel. Even the fiercest of flames are extinguished. Sometimes it's the brightest burning blazes that are put out first, either because there's nothing else to burn, or because they're stamped out. I stare hard at the ashes and realize I feel exactly like that. The girl who was on fire has been extinguished. Part of me feels like that flame was put out a long time ago.

I wonder, suddenly, how long I've been sitting in this rocking chair. My body is stiff and aching. I pull the shawl tighter around myself. There isn't much warmth radiating from the fireplace, now that the fire is completely out. I don't know what time it is, but it's dark enough for me to know that the sun has yet to begin its ascent into the sky. Instead, the room around me has been cast into shadow, tinged with blue that tells me the moon must be out and shining. I think winter is beginning to set in, but I'm not sure. Time doesn't seem to have much meaning anymore. Not to me.

_**I guess I sleep, because the next thing I know, it's morning and Greasy Sae's banging around at the stove. She makes eggs and toast and sits there until I've eaten it all. **_–MJ

The food has no flavor as I chew and swallow each bite. It might as well be sand, for how hard it is to get down. I do it anyway, because I know she won't stop nagging or go away until I have. I told Haymitch not to tell me who wasn't here, that I wanted it to be a surprise. It becomes obvious as I eat, who one of those people is. Peeta. This isn't his bread. I don't need to be a baker to know what was made by his hand, and this isn't his. So that means he must still be in the Capitol. Maybe he's opened a fancy bakery there. No. That's not Peeta. He's coming home. I cast the thought away as being 'not real'.

How long has it been since I assassinated Coin? How long since any of it? I have no idea. Time has no purpose. There's nothing stopping me from ending my life. I don't move, though. What am I waiting for? Haymitch isn't here. There are no cameras here, no audience, no one from the Capitol to watch my every move. I may not have _Nightlock _but I can make a fine noose. There are plenty of ways to kill myself. So what's holding me back? What keeps me rooted here, sitting in this rocking chair, clinging to this shawl? What am I waiting for?

The days pass, then weeks, then…time becomes a stranger entirely, only measured in meals that Greasy Sae makes for me. Her granddaughter is here, playing with the bright blue ball of yarn. She's perfectly content, it seems, to roll it around on the floor and chase after it. Sometimes I watch as she unravels a bit of it, only to roll it back up. She grins proudly at her achievement, but I can't force myself to smile back. She doesn't mind, though. She doesn't seem to be any more aware of my presence than I am of hers - which sometimes is fleeting at best. Their visits are only brief reprieves from the tangled mess that has become my mind.

I wonder vaguely what happened at my trial. Did they show footage of me killing Coin? Did they show me cracking and breaking down when I found out how Snow was using Peeta? How many people spoke on my behalf, in my defense? It probably wasn't very hard to convince anyone that I was driven mad. That I'm a complete lunatic. Maybe I am. After all, do sane people really kill someone without feeling at least some sense of remorse? I wouldn't know. I used to hate the thought of ending another person's life. Now, though, so many of those lines have been blurred. The right thing isn't always moral, or ethical. Or even right, really. Just…necessary.

Winter sets in, making itself known with pounding rain, and then with the too-quiet, still nights. A chill settles over the house that the fire, which Greasy Sae builds up every night before leaving, can't thaw. I know that if I looked out the window, all I'd see is white. Snow has probably covered the entire District, or what's left of it. Buried the ashes, the decomposing bodies, the memories.

Cold, hot, it doesn't matter. I feel numb to sensation, to anything really. There are moments of clarity but I don't try to hold onto them. Part of me wants to. Wants to cling to them desperately, beg them not to leave me to the barren place that's inside my own head. But I'm paralyzed and each moment slips from my grasp before I can even close my mind around the thought. Still, through the fog that surrounds me, one thing whispers to me, lingering.

_What am I waiting for?_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Hey everyone! Thanks to those of you who have reviewed/favorite and just read my story! I hope you like it so far. Please do take a moment to leave a review if you read it, I'd like to know whether it's something people think I should continue with or not! A big thank you to my beta reader, April93 for her editing skills, and her patience with answering my questions. Until next time!

*Disclaimer* I am not Suzanne Collins. I am not making any money from this story, nor do I want to. I'm just borrowing her characters and the world in which they live. I don't own anyone or anything; this is a work of fiction and should be regarded as such. Passages from the Hunger Games trilogy are property of Suzanne Collins, not me. They are used for entertainment purposes and to give a time/place/setting to the forthcoming chapter.

-*-*-*-*-*-*Chapter Two*-*-*-*-*-*-

It's the morning after Buttercup's re-appearance, and I'm exhausted. It's not the kind of tired that sleep can cure. It's that bone-deep, emotional fatigue that makes it hard to move, to think, to feel. I know I look even more pale than usual. I manage to make it downstairs, though. It doesn't take that long to take care of Buttercup's injuries, though those mewling sounds he makes as I dig the thorn from his paw has me feeling more sympathetic towards him than I ever thought possible.

Talking to my mother on the phone after reading her letter lifts a weight from my chest I hadn't been aware of. We don't talk much, actually. We do more weeping than anything, but it feels…good, almost. To finally have her there, mentally and emotionally, to lean on. We've finally gotten to a point in our relationship, it seems, where we can rely on one another. Well, at least I can rely on her from a distance. I'm not so sure she can always rely on me. I'm self-aware enough to know that there are days where my mind feels like it's unreachable, even to me. A lot of days where my self-awareness, or awareness of my surroundings or time itself, is minimal at best.

While I do feel a bit better, a bit lighter, crying and grieving with my mother has only added to the intense exhaustion that has overcome me. I'm hardly aware of my surroundings as Buttercup sits next to me on the sofa, his side warm as it rests against me. His purr is so soft that I don't notice it at first, and I'm vaguely surprised that he's here, pressed against me, so close. I understand the unspoken bond that's been forged between us, though, and I'm grateful for it. For him.

I'm still sitting on the sofa, Buttercup keeping watch beside me, when Peeta and Greasy Sae come in through the front door. He's carrying a loaf of bread that smells delicious. In her hands are makings for breakfast. I don't follow them into the kitchen, though, or even get up. I listen to the sounds of movement in the next room. There's a quiet exchange and then Peeta is approaching me, his hand held out in offering. Buttercup's ears flatten against his head and he hisses. I laugh suddenly because it strikes me as funny that this cat, this miserable creature who'd always hated me, is now acting protectively towards me. It just goes to show how much things can change, I suppose.

I look up at Peeta and the look of bewilderment on his face is enough to make me laugh again. I'm still grinning a bit when I finally accept his hand, allowing him to pull me to my feet. I stumble a bit, my exhaustion weighing me down, but he's there to catch me. His arm slides around my waist instantly, keeping me from falling. I'm not prepared for that closeness, but I cling to him anyway. The remnants of my smile slip from my face but I don't pull away, so his arm remains there, warm and solid around me as he leads me into the kitchen. Buttercup is still complaining loudly, though perhaps now it's more out of protest that he no longer had a warm body to press against. He must realize that his protests are being ignored because he hops down from the sofa and follows us into the kitchen.

"I haven't heard you laugh in a long time," Peeta says, gently depositing me in a chair at the kitchen table.

"I haven't had much of a reason to," I respond, shrugging. A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "Though, the look on your face when I did was priceless."

It's his turn to laugh and it's such a good sound that I can't help but feel the joy radiating from it. Suddenly the kitchen feels like a warmer place. There's a fleeting sense that, even just for a moment, that something is right with the world. That there is still hope, still a chance for things to be good, a chance for happiness. It fills me with warmth long after it tapers off and I can't help but watch him. He's thin, yes, and his scars, like mine, are painful reminders, but he's carrying himself like…well, like the old Peeta. I don't know what they did at the Capitol, but whatever it was must have helped a great deal. He's not the same person who I had parted with on the streets of the Capitol, before the end of it all.

"Any game?" Greasy Sae asks as she moves about the kitchen, making us breakfast. It takes a few moments to realize to what she's referring and I shake my head. My feeble attempt at hunting the day before. "Ah, well. There'll be plenty of time for that, I expect." She takes my failure in stride and if she's disappointed, she doesn't show it.

It isn't long before the three of us are sitting around the table, eating a delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, mash, and thick slices of soft, warm bread with a bit of goat cheese spread over it. I feed Buttercup my bacon and he sits at my feet, his tail swishing happily as he eats the fatty strips.

"Now, see, I didn't make all this just for you to feed it to that miserable creature," Greasy Sae reprimands me, but her words lack any real bite.

"He's fur and bones. He needs it more than I do," I say simply, and Buttercup gives one of his kitten mews for good effect. Greasy Sae makes a 'humph' noise at the back of her throat but goes back to her own meal. And there it is, a pleased little smile on her weathered face that lets me know she approves.

I help myself to a second slice of Peeta's bread, slathering on a thick layer of goat cheese before biting into it. We eat in silence for several minutes and I wonder vaguely where Haymitch is. No, no need to wonder. It's still morning, I'm sure he's passed out somewhere in his house. His own kitchen table, maybe. Knowing him, he probably doesn't make it to his bed that often. I frown slightly as I remember something.

"Peeta, were you here last night?" I ask, shifting slightly in my chair to face him. "I fell asleep down here, but I woke up in my bed." I try not to make it sound accusatory, and I'm not really angry, I just want to know. I find myself surprised that I have no memory of how I got from the living room to my bed, and that I hadn't even thought about it until now.

"Yes," He admits, after a few moments of hesitation. "It wasn't that late, I didn't think you'd be asleep. I was bringing in firewood when I saw you lying there. At first I thought you were de-" He stops mid-word and a look of panic, of fear, of pain flickers briefly over his features. He clears his throat, blue eyes going from my face, to the remaining food on his plate, back up to me. "I was worried. You seemed to be all right, but you wouldn't wake up so I carried you upstairs and put you to bed. I, uh, I stayed with you for a while. Just to make sure you were okay."

"Oh." I answer, not sure what else to say. The thought of him doing that for me, of not only carrying me upstairs and tucking me into bed, but staying with me, brings back a lot of memories. A lot of nights where the only thing that could chase away my nightmares was the strength of his arms, the comfort of his voice. I realize that I miss it. It's been a long time since I've had that, and I miss it.

"I didn't have any nightmares last night," I tell him, and I think he knows that's my way of saying 'thank you' because he smiles in relief. I don't know, maybe he's just glad I'm not angry with him, or weirded out that he stayed with me. I think it's sweet, really. "Did Buttercup hiss at you?" I ask, remembering how I woke up some time during the night; Buttercup had been crouched beside me, keeping watch as I slept.

"No, but he nearly made me trip and drop you," Peeta tells me with a little shake of his head. "I was carrying you up the stairs and he kept weaving around my legs, like he wanted me to fall or something. It'd be bad enough without having a clunky fake leg." It's the first time he's really complained much about having an artificial leg, at least around me. He'd never really been much of a complainer. "Anyway. I just didn't want to drop you," He finishes earnestly.

"You didn't drop me, Peeta," I reassure him, and I'm rewarded with a small smile. By this time Greasy Sae has finished eating and is clearing away dishes, washing them as quietly as she can in the sink so that we can speak in relative privacy. "I'm glad you're back," I add in a much quieter voice. His expression turns to one of surprise and then he's smiling.

"Me, too."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Hey everyone! I really enjoyed writing this chapter, so I hope you'll like it. I worked really hard on it, so I'd really like to get some more reviews before posting the next chapter. Whether it's a few words, or a few sentences, I'd really appreciate it if you could take a moment to tell me what you think! Thanks to my beta reader, April93 for your help and encouragement. Read on, and enjoy!

*Disclaimer* I am not Suzanne Collins. I am not making any money from this story, nor do I want to. I'm just borrowing her characters and the world in which they live. I don't own anyone or anything; this is a work of fiction and should be regarded as such. Passages from the Hunger Games trilogy are property of Suzanne Collins, not me. They are used for entertainment purposes and to give a time/place/setting to the forthcoming chapter.

-*-*-*-*-*-*Chapter Three*-*-*-*-*-*-

He doesn't bother knocking much. Come to think of it, no one really does. Yet when I arrive at the front door to Peeta's house, I don't feel comfortable barging in. Silly, maybe, but I just don't. I haven't been inside his house much. Somehow, my house has been the center of action, so to speak, ever since we moved in. That was when our families were still with us. I know I should consider myself lucky that I still have my mother, and I do, but it still hurts so much every time I think of Prim that I avoid it at all costs. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. I'm trying to follow Dr. Aurelius's advice, but despite a lot of it being rather simple, it's hard. Don't avoid the memories, Katniss. Let yourself think about the people you've lost. Let yourself remember. Yes, it will hurt. But you have to mourn, you have to grieve. You have to live. Go through the motions, they will have meaning again.

His words echo around in my head and instead of shoving them away, I let them linger and sink in. I've been trying to avoid anything that would cause the memories to rise, and with them, the pain. But with that, I've also been avoiding human contact for the most part. That means I've been avoiding Peeta and he's the last person I want to avoid anymore. He returned from the Capitol looking much more like himself than before, but I know instinctively that he's still going through a lot. He has his own memories, his own pain. His own nightmares that he faces every night. And I know that I haven't been here for him like he has been for me. He hasn't been back for very long, but I know I should still be making an effort. There are still a lot of lost days, as I call them. Days where life is too hard to face, so I don't face it at all. Sometimes it's just a day, sometimes it's longer and time loses all meaning. I hate myself for it, and I'm trying to make it so that there are less of them. The last thing I want is to become like my mother was after my father died, leaving those around me to fend for themselves. I've already seen that inside me on multiple occasions and though I can't shake it entirely yet, I'm trying.

"Katniss?" The door is already open and Peeta is standing there, looking at me with an expectant expression. I don't think it's the first time he's said my name. There's patience, understanding in those blue eyes. It warms my heart to see that, rather than anger, distrust, accusation. He knows better than most that it's sometimes hard to stay in the present moment.

"Sorry," I mumble needlessly, shaking my head a little as if to rid it of those lingering thoughts that so often carried me away from the present moment. "Can I come in?" I ask, again wondering why I'm bothering. He confirms my thoughts with his answer.

"What? Yeah, of course." He says, pausing as he looks at me, takes me in. "You know, you don't have to ask permission to come in. Or even knock. You're welcome anytime." He steps aside, waiting until I'm inside before shutting the door to keep out the cold. The snow has begun to pile up due to a late snow storm, though our paths have been cleared regularly. Peeta, or someone else? I don't look out my window enough to notice. "Come in the kitchen, I was just about to take some bread from the oven."

I inhale deeply as he leads me from the entryway, to the kitchen. It smells faintly of smoke, of coals, of bread. Something slightly sweet with hints of nuts, perhaps. It smells like home. A chair is pulled out for me at the kitchen table and I sit in it, my hands resting on the tabletop. My fingers rub along the surface, which has been worn smooth from years of use. Something registers in my mind, telling me that we haven't been living in these homes long enough for it to feel like that. It draws my gaze and immediately I know. It must have been pulled from the wreckage, probably of the bakery, where Peeta's family had lived, worked, and ultimately died. It's a wonder it survived, but I can see from the coloring, the areas of darkness and cracking along the grain that it was probably worse off when it was found. Peeta must have spent some time giving it new life. He notices me studying it just as I glance down at the legs, which are made of a slightly lighter colored wood, obviously not its original ones.

"It seemed a waste to leave it," He explains in a casual voice, but I know that the table's presence means that he visited his family's old, destroyed home and bakery. Were their bodies still inside, decomposing? Or had the teams, still working in the streets as we speak, removed them? I hope they were gone, for his sake. He's already seen his fair share of horrors, he doesn't need that one. "Besides, there are a lot of memories stored in this wood." He admits, giving it a fond pat before turning to tend to the baking bread. "A lot of bad ones, but a lot of good, too. My father taught me to make bread at this table."

I can't help it; a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips as a mental image forms in my mind. A young Peeta and his father, the soft-spoken baker with strong hands, kneading bread on the table - laughing together. The baker showing Peeta how to form rolls in his hands. Peeta grinning with pride as he gets his to look like his father's. My smile slips away as I remember that his father is gone, but the image leaves a warmth inside me that I'm grateful for. "I'm glad you could save it." I say simply, and I mean it.

I've never really watched Peeta bake and although I haven't watched the whole process, I can tell just by watching him now that he loves it. It must bring him some sense of, I don't know, peace, or joy, or perhaps closeness to his late father. There's a sense of fierce concentration as he checks the bread to make sure it's perfect, not too doughy but not burnt. Perhaps it's nothing more than the joy of creating something, nurturing it. A simple thing like bread that can carry someone away from death's doorstep. I should know. Whereas what I do, is destroy. I hunt. I kill innocent animals, I end their lives. Sure, it's to provide food, but it doesn't change the thing itself. Peeta creates while I destroy. It makes me realize just how different we really are. How similar Gale and I are. Even now, Gale is off at District 2, either rounding up remaining Peacekeepers or stamping out resistance. Whatever he's doing there is probably motivated by the anger and hatred he still has inside him. That we both still have.

"I know why your favorite color is orange." I suddenly blurt out. I obviously startled him because he jumps at the sound of my voice. I hear that soft, barely audible sound, somewhere between a hiss and a gasp, that tells me he's in pain. I'm out of my chair before I realize it, reaching for him. "I'm sorry! What did I do?"

"It's nothing," he says, and there's an edge of pain in his voice, a tightness that I've come to recognize, that he's probably trying to hide. He has a thick pad in each hand and in between them, pressed together, are two perfect looking loaves of bread. "I bumped my hand getting the bread from the oven. It's just a little burn."

My eyes drop to scrutinize his hands and even as he continues moving, setting the bread on the table to cool, I see it. There's an angry red mark along the outside of his right hand. The pads he used are for the other side of the hand, for gripping hot bread, pans and things. They're not meant to protect the back or sides of the hands. Certainly not for the arms, either, where I remember seeing many burns on his father, and a few on Peeta.

"I'll go get some ointment from my mother's old stores," I tell him, turning to leave. I stop when I feel his hand grab mine, and turn slowly back to face him. My eyes don't go to his face though, they go directly to our hands. So many memories of us doing just this, holding hands, fight for my attention, but I shove them away for the moment. I can dwell on them later. I tear my gaze away and look up into his face instead, but he's already dropping my hand.

"Sorry. I just...don't waste any of it on me. There probably isn't much left, there are others here who'll need it more than me," he explains, and I'm reminded once again of how kind he is. How he's always putting himself last. He's right, of course. There isn't a lot left because I haven't bothered to re-stock many of my mother's supplies because I don't know when or if she'll be back, and I'm no healer. He may say otherwise, but I know nothing compared to my mother's vast knowledge.

"It's not a waste," I tell him, my eyes once again going to his hand, this time the one that's burnt. "But if you don't want the ointment, at least let me bring in some snow." His head tilts to the side as he seems to consider my request. Then he nods and I turn again, not towards the door but to the cupboard. I'm not sure where things are kept so I look through them until I find a large bowl. "I'll be right back." I don't wait for his response.

I move quickly, not wanting Peeta to be in pain any longer than he has to be. Snow won't help as much as the ointment would have, but it's a lot better than nothing. I make my way outside, to the nearest drift of snow I can see. My breath comes out in white, smoky looking puffs as I scoop the fluffy white stuff into the bowl. I use my fist to pack it down as hard as I can before scooping in more, repeating the process a few times before I'm satisfied. I carry it back inside, my cheeks stinging from the cold.

Peeta is seated at the table by the time I set the bowl down. My eyes scan the kitchen before finding what I'm looking for. I take the clean, thin white rag that's probably used for drying dishes or something. Scooping some snow out of the bowl, I place it in the center of the white rag, which I've laid down flat on the table. Once there's enough there, I gather up all the edges and twist them into one end. I once again compact the snow inside by squeezing it between my hands. When it's firm enough, I sit and reach for Peeta's hand.

"Why is orange my favorite color?" he asks quietly, extending his arm out so that I can take his hand. I hold his burnt hand in my freezing one and gently press the snow-filled rag to his burn with my other. There's a brief moment where his lips press tightly together and I know it must hurt. I've always hated burns, even small ones. Ironic, I guess, what my nickname is, and what my worst injuries have been. The girl who was on fire.

"I think it reminds you of life. Of what's worth living for. Sunrise. Sunset. Warmth. Love." The last is said so quietly that I can barely hear it, even inside my own head. It's the most open and honestly I've spoken in a long time, and it leaves me feeling incredibly vulnerable. "Though, yellow would suit you, too." I say hurriedly. My eyes have fallen to our hands; mine is thawing out thanks to the warmth of his. I glance up at him and the tightness around his eyes and mouth has eased. The snow is beginning to draw out some of the heat in the burn, and with it, the pain.

"So why is green yours?" His question catches me off guard and I pull my hand away from his. I busy myself by gently removing the rag from Peeta's burn and replenishing its supply of snow. It's full, compacted and twisted back up into a ball before I answer him with a simple shrug. He places his hand back into mine and I press the snow pack against the red stripe along the outside of his hand.

"I think it reminds you of life, and of what's worth living for. Forests and trees, plants. A way of sustaining life. Freedom." He's trying to keep his gaze averted, but his blue eyes keep flickering back up to my face. I can almost guarantee he's trying to gauge my reaction, to see if I'll get angry. But I'm not angry, not really. I give another shrug, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of my lips.

"Maybe."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: I hope you all liked the last chapter! I really enjoyed writing it; it was actually the first full scene I think I wrote for this story. Please, please, PLEASE do me the huge favor and honor of leaving even just a short review! Your reviews, comments and critiques are what keep me going, and let me know if I'm taking things in a good direction! If you have any ideas or things you'd like to see in future chapters, please let me know! I think I'm going to hold on to the next chapter until I get a few more reviews. As always, a big thank you to my beta-reader, April93! Read on, and enjoy!

*Disclaimer* I am not Suzanne Collins. I am not making any money from this story, nor do I want to. I'm just borrowing her characters and the world in which they live. I don't own anyone or anything; this is a work of fiction and should be regarded as such. Passages from the Hunger Games trilogy are property of Suzanne Collins, not me. They are used for entertainment purposes and to give a time/place/setting to the forthcoming chapter.

-*-*-*-*-*-*Chapter Four*-*-*-*-*-*-

I am the MockingJay, but it's not just a dress that bursts into flame or a costume. I fly free, my wings stretching as far as they can reach. I'm high above the world, soaring and diving and freewheeling through the air. The black sheen of my feathers catches in the sunlight and I wonder if the people below can see how I shine. District Twelve is a hub of activity below me, the woods nearby beckoning to me. I open my mouth but instead of whistling, I sing Rue's theme and those four notes, trilling yet haunting, echo back to me. Other mockingjays are picking up the tune, each one altering it slightly until there's a beautiful, if not slightly eerie, chorus all around me.

They join me in flight and we take to the clear blue sky, dancing around each other as we continue to sing. We seem to fly like this, in no particular formation but somehow always together, for what seems like forever. I recognize them, now. Prim, some of her feathers disheveled in the back. Father, whose song is the most beautiful of all. Madge, quiet but graceful and fluid in flight. Cinna, a line of pure gold outlining his eyes. Rue, who finally has her wings and is tiny but nimble.

As I begin to look around more, I notice them. Parachutes. We're not flying at all, but hanging from silver parachutes. I open my mouth to warn the others when it happens. Arrows, identical to the ones I used during the Games, begin slicing through the air. They pierce mockingjays one after another; through the wings, the neck, the heart. MockingJays begin exploding in balls of flame and feather all around me, but the songs continue. Those four notes continue on, even as I feel myself explode, consumed by fire and smoke. I feel myself turn to ash, rise from it and somehow continue flying. I'm alone but the song continues, only it isn't a song. The voices are no longer singing. They're screaming. I begin screaming with them, if for no other reason than to drown them out.

I bolt upright in bed, a keening wail still ringing in my ears as it dies in my throat, which is raw and parched. I'm covered in sweat and blood rushes in my ears as my heart continues to beat painfully fast. It takes several moments of blinking into the darkness, the edges of my dream fading away, to realize that the screaming hasn't stopped. My eyebrows draw together and all I can think of is that my mockingjay friends are still on fire, still suffering – those parachutes exploding as the arrows pierce through feathers and flesh.

I rip the covers off my body and practically throw myself from the bed. The sheets somehow manage to tangle around my legs and I go crashing to the floor, scraping my knees and hands in the process. I kick away the sheets and the screams continue so I race down the stairs. I'm still not fully awake, I'm in that in between place where my eyes are open but part of my consciousness is still dreaming. Still trapped in that world where the dead plague me. I take the stairs two at a time, stumbling just as I reach the bottom, the momentum bringing me down hard onto my right knee. I pick myself back up and in seconds I'm outside, running towards the sound of those terrible screams. Someone's being hurt, tortured, killed. I have to make it stop.

I'm completely unaware of my surroundings as I run. My world has narrowed down to the screaming. The snow has melted into mud and slush and the ground is still freezing cold, but I don't feel it beneath my bare feet. I don't feel anything but the pounding of my heart and the panic, the dread. I don't know where I am, or what I'm doing, even as I pull open a front door and follow the noise upstairs.

Another door is being opened and there he is, thrashing in his bed like he's being tortured by some unseen force but can't break free. I wonder fleetingly if this is how he felt, all those times, when he saw me screaming, in the throes of some unspeakable nightmare. This panic, this feeling of desperation that I'll do anything to end the screaming, to end the pain. To not have to watch him writhe like this, that look of terror and agony on his face – that expression just might be ingrained into my mind for the rest of my life.

"Peeta!" I cross the room without hesitation. Of course my mind goes back to District 13 when he was still heavily under the influence of tracker jacker venom, when he tried to kill me. I shove the thought away and go to him. He's still screaming and it's so loud, I feel like it'll never stop ringing in my ears. His face is read, screwed up tight with pain, his mouth wide open mid-scream as I reach him. I say his name again, sitting on the edge of the bed. I don't want to startle him or make things worse. I almost wish Haymitch were here. I wonder briefly how he can sleep through it, but then realize that he's probably passed out in an alcoholic stupor.

"Peeta! Wake up!" I urge him again. His blue eyes flash open but his pupils are so dilated that his eyes might as well be black. They shrink a bit as they search for something, anything, to hold onto. I'm here, reaching for him again. Recognition slowly flickers across his face and his features relax slightly. His arms are already stretching out towards me and I'm moving towards him when it happens. Again. A shadow passes over his face and for the second time in my life, I feel his hands close around my throat.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Notes: I'm sorry this chapter took so long! Real life has thrown me some horrible curve balls recently and I've been struggling to keep my head above water. This is probably my favourite chapter so far. It started out being one thing and sort of organically became something else. I'm pretty happy with it. It's a lot longer than the last one, and I hope you'll enjoy and take the moment to review! I hate to continue to harp on you guys, but I really do love hearing what you have to say about my story! If you have any ideas on what you think should happen next, what you'd like to have happen, please don't hesitate to let me know, whether in a review or a private message! I'm a really open-minded person and always eager to hear what others think! Thanks again to my beta, April93 for her continued patience and insight. Read on, and enjoy!

*Disclaimer* I am not Suzanne Collins. I am not making any money from this story, nor do I want to. I'm just borrowing her characters and the world in which they live. I don't own anyone or anything; this is a work of fiction and should be regarded as such. Passages from the Hunger Games trilogy are property of Suzanne Collins, not me. They are used for entertainment purposes and to give a time/place/setting to the forthcoming chapter.

-*-*-*-*-*-*Chapter Five*-*-*-*-*-*-

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Peeta exclaims, an expression of horror written across his face. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here!"

I'm not sure how we ended up like this. I'm sitting on his bed, which is still damp with his sweat, while he's taken to the farthest side of his bedroom. He can't seem to decide if he wants to stay in the corner there, huddled in on himself, or pace from one end to the other. The only thing that stays constant is his expression, and the fact that he always keeps his hands busy – tugging and raking through his hair, wringing themselves, waving in the air.

"I heard you screaming," I tell him quietly; at least I can talk this time. "Besides, you did tell me that I don't have to knock." It seems a bit unnecessary to point this out but I do it anyway. My heart is still working on returning to a somewhat normal rhythm in my chest, instead of beating so hard and fast that it feels like it'll burst right through my rib cage.

"I could have killed you!" he yells, his hands going back to tugging at his hair. At this rate, he won't have much of it left. The flush that covers his entire face brings the burn scars out in pale relief, mottled and painful looking. "I'm dangerous!"

"You're not dangerous, Peeta. Anyone could have reacted like that," I tell him, and I realize that I mean it. I'm not afraid of him. Not anymore. "You didn't kill me. You stopped yourself, and I think that counts for a lot. You had to be pulled off me back at 13. You did nearly kill me then. But I'm fine, really. You didn't hurt me."

I reach out a hand towards him but don't move from the bed. I'm not sure how I know, but he needs to come to me. He needs to make that decision. His look of panic, of terror, is still there. But uncertainty slowly begins to creep into his blue eyes, softening his features a little as he seems to debate moving from his current position in the corner of the room, where he's wedged himself between his dresser and a tall lamp.

I'm not frightened by the incident, not really. Sure, there's a little kernel of doubt in the back of my mind that plays all the various 'what if' scenarios in a constant, never-ending re-run. But I'm able to ignore it because none of that happened. The second he realized what he was doing, the moment his consciousness took over, he released me. His hands flew away from my neck as if they'd been burned, he stared at them as if they'd become monsters, and he was out of the bed and in the corner of the room, quite literally, faster than I could blink and get a full lungful of air.

And I was uninjured. My throat is a little sore, but it doesn't feel bruised, and it's certainly nothing like it was that other time. He'd really tried to kill me then. Now? Well, like I said. Anyone could have woken up from a nightmare and, still not aware of what's reality and what's part of the bad dream, reacted to someone reaching for them the way I'd done to him.

"I almost killed you," Peeta says softly, as if trying to convince me not to let him anywhere near me. "I thought you were a mutt, sent here by Snow to kill me in my sleep." He sounds uncertain; he's taken a couple small steps in my direction, perhaps without even realizing it.

"You didn't almost kill me, Peeta. You stopped yourself before you even injured me," I remind him again; since when am I the patient one? "Snow is dead. Real or not real?"

"Real," he tells me immediately, though he draws out that one syllable like he isn't sure where I'm going with this.

"You believe that I'm a mutt. Real or not real?" My voice sounds a little strained; it still stings to know that he really thought I was a mutt, created by the Capitol. It brings up painful memories that I have a hard time containing, of thrusting away from the forefront of my mind and emotions.

"Not real!" is Peeta's vehement response; he even looks a little angry, maybe offended, that I asked. He's taken another step towards the bed, towards my outstretched hand.

"And as soon as you woke up and realized all this, you stopped yourself. Real or not real?" My voice is softer still, and he's about an arm's length away from my hand. I look into his eyes, and they hold a tortured expression, like he wants so badly to believe me, but is still afraid of what he could have done.

"Real," he admits, taking a deep, shaky breath that's loud enough that I can hear it rattle in his chest. He's within reaching distance now and my fingers brush his. He doesn't recoil so I take his hand in mine and give it a gentle tug. "The last thing I want is to hurt you," he tells me earnestly, and with that he sits on the bed next to me. Slumps, is more like it. I transfer his hand from one of mine to the other, and wrap my arm around his shoulders. It feels a bit odd, our roles reversed like this, but he needs me. I'm suddenly reminded of all the times I comforted her after she'd woken up from a nightmare. Prim.

"Peeta, don't think about all the things you could have done," I remind him, my voice not nearly as strong as I would like it to be. My heart is still clenching painfully at the memories of my little sister. "Remind yourself of what you did do, because that's the only thing that matters. Think of this, I don't know, as a test. A test that you passed."

"What if it happens again?" Peeta asks, his voice little more than the whisper of a frightened child. "I couldn't forgive myself if I hurt you, Katniss. If I…"

"Stop," I tell him firmly, cutting him off from saying any more. "Don't do that to yourself. In case you haven't noticed, I'm pretty hard to kill. I've been cut, burned, shot, blown up, and yes, choked. I'm still here. And you have to stop worrying about all the 'What If' scenarios in life. If it happens again, you'll stop yourself just like you did tonight, maybe even sooner. You're still recovering. It'll get better."

I'm not sure if I believe it myself, but I want to badly enough that I sound pretty convincing. I want to believe that there's hope – for him, for me, for all of us. He's already so much better since I last saw him in the Capitol. I'll never be able to forget the look he had in his eyes after his abduction. That haunted, tortured look that would cloud his features, casting a dark shadow over his face. Tonight is the first time I've seen even a sliver of that look return and even when it did, it was brief, fleeting. There's warmth in his eyes; instead of being a cool, ice blue, they're the color of the sky on a particularly warm, pleasant day. They're back to being the eyes I love so much, the familiar pools of blue that I've stared into on countless occasions.

"Let me see," he says after several long moments that I've spent listening to the sound of our breathing. There must be a light breeze outside because I can just barely hear the trees that line the Victor Village whispering. I don't have to ask him, I know what he wants. I nod and allow my arm to slip from around his shoulders but remain otherwise still as he shifts and begins to inspect my neck. His fingers are soft and tentative, as if he's still afraid he'll suddenly start choking me again.

"It's okay," I whisper encouragingly, watching the look of utmost concentration on his face, the slight crease between his eyes and the thinning of his mouth. I know he won't find anything, no fingermarks or other physical sign of what happened. All that remains is pale skin and the burn scars that creep up my neck and fade before they can reach my face. The skin is still tender, still a bit pink in areas, but the outside is healing quicker than the inside. That reminds me of something. "How's your hand?"

"My hand…?" he repeats, his voice full of confusion. It takes a few seconds for him to speak again. "Oh, the burn. It's fine, Katniss. See?" He holds it out and it's my turn for inspection. The moon is bright enough to cast a pale glow through the window and I take his offered hand, turning it so that I can scrutinize the still-visible stripe along the outside. The skin is pink and aggravated-looking, but it hasn't blistered or broken. It relieves me to see that it's just a mild surface burn after all. I give a little nod and release his hand. Something else comes to mind and I shift to face him even more, looking at him quizzically.

"Peeta…does it come off?" I ask, pointing to his leg. Now that I think about it, it kind of seems strange that he would sleep with his prosthetic leg on if it were detachable. I assume it would be uncomfortable, but what do I know?

"The leg? Yeah, but the posts snag on things so I usually just keep it on," he answers with ease; if it bothers him to be asked, he's really good at not showing it.

"Does it hurt?" I know the question probably sounds childish, but I want to know. I need to know. There's still a large part of me that feels guilty for the loss of his leg. Maybe if I hadn't tied the tourniquet as tight or if I'd had more medical knowledge…I tell him not to dwell and yet here I am, worrying about What Ifs. I know that makes me a bit of a hypocrite but I'm okay with that.

"No, though sometimes when I'm lying in bed or something, I swear I can feel my toes wiggle or whatever. It's kind of weird," he answered, grinning a little as if he's amused by it. If you ask me, it's creepy. I'm not sure he's telling the truth about it not hurting, but I know that if he is lying, it's only because he doesn't want me to feel bad about it. That annoys me a little, but I leave it alone.

"I'm sorry," I mumble lamely, even though he doesn't seem worried about it.

"For what? You saved my life, Katniss. My leg was a small price to pay, and it wouldn't have done me much good if I was dead." Okay, so he has a point there. Damn him.

"Want to see?" His voice is gentler than it was a moment ago, like he remembers how sensitive I was, how much I freaked out, when I first learned that his real one had been amputated – because of me. I've seen a man's legs blown off, not to mention a lot of other horrible things since then, so the idea of a person living the rest of their leg with a prosthetic limb doesn't seem that bad anymore. Even though there is still guilt. I nod tentatively, but I'm pretty sure I squeak in surprise as he begins pulling his pajama pants down.

"Peeta! A little warning, please!" I demand, and I can feel a crimson flush creeping up into my cheeks as I turn my face away. This makes Peeta laugh, that musical sound that radiates warmth. I can't help grinning a little, though I still have my head turned the opposite direction, staring resolutely at a spot on the wall.

"It's okay, Katniss. I've got shorts on," he assures me, still chuckling softly as if I've made a really funny joke. I try to dig up some anger at him for laughing at my expense, but all I can muster is a little exasperation. Boys.

"You could have said that," I point out, though I slowly turn my head back to watch. I guess my curiosity has beaten my modesty. This time. I look down and briefly study the prosthetic foot, amazed at the detail. It's the same shape as a real one, with jointed toes that must flex and move as he walks. Before I can stop myself, I reach down and gently pull on one, testing its strength and flexibility.

"Hey, the action is up here," Peeta jokes, but I straighten and look back up. He's pushed his pajama pants down past his knees and as awkward as a situation as this already is, it could be a lot worse. He's not covered in mud, filth, and his own blood, for instance. Still, I try to ignore the fact that he's somewhat undressed and rivet my gaze to where his leg meets the prosthetic. It's fascinating to watch him work to unfasten the contraption from what remains of his real leg. As he mentioned, there are metal rods, or posts, sticking out from the bottom of his leg. There's four of them and they seem to disappear seamlessly into his skin – I'm guessing that's where the prosthetic hooks in place, but I'm still a bit confused even though I just watched him take the thing off. There are a few little grooves cut into each rod. Even though there's still a faint scar, it's not as gruesome as I would have thought.

Looking at them, I can see why the posts would catch on things, or scratch his other leg. It's still a little weird to be looking at the stump of what used to be a whole leg, and I still feel like it's my fault he lost it. Seeing the reality of it, though, how functional the prosthetic is, somehow makes it a bit less…scary. I'm not sure my train of thought makes any sense and maybe it's selfish of me, but I feel better about it.

"Okay," I say simply, giving Peeta a faint grin.

"Okay?" he repeats, though his tone of voice implies he's seeking confirmation, rather than displaying confusion.

"Okay." I respond firmly with an equally final nod of my head. There's an unspoken agreement between us and we both grin at one another in the dim light the moon outside provides. I can feel his gaze on me as I watch him re-attach the prosthetic but I refuse to blush again as he pulls his pajama pants back up. I shift off the bed just long enough for him to climb in beneath the sheets, our eyes meeting again.

"I'll stay with you, if you'd like," I offer. I don't need to hear his answer to know what it will be. I don't know where this role reversal has come from, and I'm sure I'll be questioning it soon. But right now, the adrenaline rush has subsided, leaving me exhausted and shaky. There will be time for questions and inner dialogue later. I'm already sliding into his bed, underneath the covers which are still damp with his sweat, when his answer comes. It's soft but definitive and warms me to my core.

"Always."


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Notes: I'm so sorry that this chapter has taken so long to post. Life has been throwing every curve ball at me imaginable. I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia a little more than a month ago and have been dealing with side effects of the medication I'm on for it, along with the pain that the fibro itself causes. There have been other things going on, but I'll stop making excuses. Thank you to everyone for the wonderful reviews of my last chapter! They mean so much to me and I'm so glad that you all liked it! I hope I still have some readers left, I realize three months is a really long time to go. I'll be starting on the next chapter as soon as this one is posted, so hopefully it won't be nearly as long before the next one! As always thank you to my lovely beta, April93 for your patience and advice! Until next time!

*Disclaimer* I am not Suzanne Collins. I am not making any money from this story, nor do I want to. I'm just borrowing her characters and the world in which they live. I don't own anyone or anything; this is a work of fiction and should be regarded as such. Passages from the Hunger Games trilogy are property of Suzanne Collins, not me. They are used for entertainment purposes and to give a time/place/setting to the chapter therein.

-*-*-*-*-*-*Chapter Six*-*-*-*-*-*-

The first thing I become aware of is the light; annoyingly bright light, in fact, piercing through my eyelids and drilling straight into my brain. I groan and shift onto my other side, snuggling down into a dark warmth I can't quite place that is accompanied by a familiar, comforting smell. Peeta. The events of the previous night sluggishly play through my mind and it takes a few minutes, but I remember that I spent the night with him.

It's hard to admit, even to myself, but it does feel really nice to be in his arms again. Everything about him is familiar to me in a way that it probably shouldn't be, not really, since we've never been lovers or anything. Sure, we made it seem like we were for the cameras but we never even came close. We even played it like I was pregnant for the Quarter Quell, but none of it was real. Not that part, at least. But he still held me as I slept, he still came to me and calmed me down, chased away the nightmares with his embrace.

And now he's here again, or I'm here, because this is his bedroom. But still, waking up like this is painfully familiar, but so comfortable. I'm warm, protected, safe. It's like a little moment of happiness that I'm stealing from the world, a shining sliver of perfection. Being here, my face tucked against his chest, our arms around each other, the sound of his heartbeat steady against my ear. Each breath I take, I'm assaulted in the most pleasant way possible by his familiar scent. It's the scent of warmth, of the earth, of all good things, and beneath them, something subtle, something uniquely Peeta. This moment is perfection.

The moment that thought solidifies in my mind, it shatters into a thousand pieces and I launch myself from the bed. I'm sure I scare him half to death by doing so, but I don't stick around to find out. Perfection can be broken, destroyed, taken away. Even just a moment of it is something that can be used against me. My landing isn't perfect and I tumble, hardly noticing the pain in my wrist as I land on it. I pop back up and seconds later, I'm leaping down the stairs. I'm not taking two at a time, or even three. I literally take a flying leap down the stairs. It's not my smartest plan ever and my foot slips on the edge of a step and I crash down the rest of them.

_My mother should have sent us a replacement Healer, with me around,_ I think to myself as I climb to my feet. I notice the drops of blood on the floor but I'm not aware of my surroundings or even myself to know where it came from. I don't seem capable of feeling pain at the moment so I have no idea how badly injured I might be. It doesn't matter. My shaky legs carry me out the front door and I throw it open with such force that I swear the entire house shakes from it.

It's a perfect spring day outside. I know that the rest of the District is probably still covered in ash, mud and debris, but inside the Victor's Village is beautiful with its manicured lawns, the flower beds, the sun which has crested over the tops of the trees that line our little neighborhood of houses. High above, somewhere in the trees, comes the call of mockingjays as they sing to one another. The memory of my most recent nightmare is still too fresh so I don't answer their call. I don't sing for them, but shiver lightly and turn away from the sound.

A slight chill still lingers in the air like a last desperate breath before the warmth of the sun chases it away. I can tell it's going to be a pleasantly warm day. I don't care, though. It's just another thing that can be taken away from me. I remember all too well being locked in sterile rooms with tubes going into me, straps holding me down. No birds singing there, no trees whispering and dancing in the breeze.

I'm not running anymore, but I've somehow managed to make it into my own front yard where my toes are wiggling and digging themselves into the soft grass and the moist soil it grows in. I look down and watch them, but I'm numb to the sensation itself. It's almost an out of body experience, watching my own toes revel in the soft earth and not feel it myself. A thought comes to me and I look up, my gaze directed at the wreckage of what remains of District 12.

I don't want or need perfection right now. Perfection can be used against me and destroyed. What I need is to immerse myself in destruction. I need to be surrounded by things that can't be ruined, that can't be used as leverage. Without further thought or consideration, my feet carry me out of the Victor's Village, away from the shining perfection, the manicured lawns and neatly pruned plants. I move towards the wreckage of District 12. The recent storm has left it looking even more decrepit than I remember. There are gouges in the earth where the bombs hit, the flesh of the land torn wide open like a raw wound. The street I find myself taking is little more than a widened path as I move further into the district – the mocking perfection of the Victor's Village disappears behind me and with it, some of my fear and panic.

I don't know how long it's been since that failed attempt at hunting, but I find myself heading towards the mayor's house, where I remember Thom and others sifting through the rubble. I stumble briefly as I remember how the entire family was found in their home, how Madge never made it out. Sweet, gentle Madge who not only showed me kindness but who had given me the pin that ultimately became the symbol of the rebellion.

"I won't forget you," I say as I pass what little is left of the house, with more conviction than I realize I had in me. "I won't forget any of you," I add, my voice a bit softer but just as strong. It surprises me, somehow, to realize just how much I mean it. The emotion is startling. Not anger, or despair, or the disconnected indifference I've been so used to, but a solid sense of resolution. A resolve that I haven't felt in a long time; an internal flame that, for a moment, is so warm and so real, it threatens to consume me.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am a victor of the Hunger Games. I helped bring down the Capitol. I lost many loved ones. I will not forget them. I am…Katniss. Katniss. Katniss!_

I'm beginning to think I really have lost my mind, which seems to be playing my own name over and over like some demented chant, when I realize that it's not my own voice inside my head. Someone is calling my name. I blink furiously for a few seconds and reality comes crashing back in. The sun seems a lot brighter than it did when I came outside. How long have I been standing here, staring blindly towards what little remains of the mayor's house? From the vague ache in my bare feet and the various bumps, cuts, and bruises I've acquired, a while.

I look around for the source of my own name and see that Thom is making his way towards me, concern written across his face. He calls my name again and this time I acknowledge him. My greeting seems to chase away some of that worry, which is replaced with a hesitant grin.

"You okay? You look as if you've taken a spill," He greets me, gesturing to my appearance. I realize I must look like an absolute lunatic, wearing nothing but a nightshirt. My feet are bare and my hair is probably a gnarled mess. Well, at least no one can say I'm vain.

"I fell down the stairs," I tell him, which isn't exactly the truth. He doesn't need to know that I took a flying leap down them; falling is bad enough. Still, his head turns one way and then the other, as if expecting to find the offending steps somewhere nearby.

"Right," Thom says slowly, still looking a little bewildered. I watch as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, nodding a little as if coming to a decision. "I've got a kit with some bandages and things, if you'd let me patch you up. It's on the cart."

That's right, the dead people cart. How many bodies have been carried from the wreckage to the mass grave? I still remember my short ride on it clearly and the stench of death that lingered in the wood.

"Could you use some help?" I ask him, not responding to his offer. I want to get my hands dirty, I want to help clear some of the rubble and feel the sweat on my skin. I don't want to wait to do it, either. I want to throw myself into the piles of debris, lose myself in back breaking work. Helping him and the others is just what I need right now.

Thom seems to consider my offer before quirking a grin.

"You let me take care of those cuts, and you can help. We'll be re-using as many of the materials as we can. Can't have you getting blood all over everything," he tells me, glancing over his shoulder briefly. "And you might want to put on a pair of pants and shoes. I have some you can borrow."

I look down at myself – my wrinkled night shirt, my cut up knees and hands. My bare feet shift, toes wiggling slightly as I consider his terms. They're reasonable enough so I agree and soon find myself sitting on a large slab of concrete, staring into the distance as Thom silently takes care of my various cuts. He's certainly no healer, but it doesn't take him long to slather on some anti-infection balm and tape on some cotton bandages. I thank him and just as I stand up, a burly young man in his late twenties, who everyone calls Bunk, approaches me with a pair of pants and shoes.

"These were Cole's," is all he says before dumping the items into my arms. His younger brother, Cole, was a tribute a number of years ago. He didn't make it past the second day, if my memory recalls correctly. Cole had been thin and wiry, a gentle and sort of nervous little boy. All of District 12 had known that he had no chance, yet no one volunteered to take his place. Bunk was already 19 at the time so all he could do was watch on, helpless.

"I'll return them to you," I promise him quietly, making eye contact with him. I understand what I see in his eyes. The burning self-loathing, the remorse, the feeling of helplessness he would always carry with him – the knowledge that there wasn't anything he could do to save his little brother. I wonder if he resents me, for being able to do what he wasn't. Or does he respect me for actually doing it? After all, even if you do love your family, how many siblings would actually volunteer as a tribute? I have no way of knowing, but I'm almost certain his expression softens just a little and he makes a gruff noise at the back of his throat before moving away, towards the sound of clanging metal and shifting wood.


End file.
